


The Miracle Man

by Troubled_Soul



Series: Smoke City [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Star Trek, The Fifth Estate (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Homelessness, John-centric, Julian is meant to be an older brother figure, Kid John, Mutism, Parental Lestrade, Street Rats, but he's not very good at it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Troubled_Soul/pseuds/Troubled_Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has never been a lucky boy.</p>
<p>With his thirteen-year-old sister, he ran away from home when he was five. Two years later, she let the drugs and alcohol take over her life until she couldn't even remember his name. Raz found him after that, but ended up being killed on the streets trying to protect him. No one else helped him after that, and it seemed that the worst was out to get him when he encountered another person out for blood. He was ready to give up.</p>
<p>But by some miracle, his life didn't end on that night. The person trying to kill him got captured by the police, and one kind man saw him hidden amongst the trash. He held out his hand, and John made a choice that would change his life for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The prologue (or pre-story, as I like to call it) to Smoke City, my second, upcoming Teenlock story. 
> 
> You don't have to read this to understand what is going on in the main story, but I think it's good if you want some background info. This just gives you an idea of where John is coming from, what he's been through, stuff like that. It's basically what happened in the eight to twelve years to John before the beginning of Smoke City.
> 
> I don't think I usually say this, but my work is unbeta'd and not 'brit-picked'. The language shouldn't be too off though, I speak British English (I think), and a majority of my friends are British... So... Hopefully there aren't too many errors in language.

When his sister was thirteen, they ran away from home.

He was five.

At the time, he didn’t really have much of an idea of what was going on. Harry just came into his room one Friday after school when he was doing homework, and started pulling clothes from the drawer against the wall, carefully placing them in the bag so she could fit more. There had been banging and yelling coming from outside, so he’d been scared. But Harry told him they were going on an adventure for the weekend, just the two of them. And so he began to help. At night they snuck food from the pantry and got all of their pocket money together, and Harry got chocolate from somewhere and John took his favourite toy hedgehog, Ryker. He’d packed some school books, his pencil case, and a dictionary too, to help with his spelling. And that Saturday morning, they walked out of the door and never went back.

Two years later, he realised that Harry their adventure was actually an escape and that Harry had been trying to protect him from their abusive father. They slept in homeless hangouts by day, walked the streets by night; if they were spotted, Harry had told him, they would be taken back home, back to the start, where they’d have to start again. He realised that she kept the both of them safe for a while, she kept them fed, always found them a place to sleep and found him blankets when he got cold. And maybe it was that responsibility that made her turn to the others like them. They lived in an old house with blackened in windows and no lights, she said they were going there to keep safe. He agreed, yeah, but soon learnt that this place was bad. John didn’t know what to do, so he stayed with her. Those kids would offer him things to eat and drink; brown and green bottles, white paper tubes and syringes filled of funny liquid. He would always say no, because they smelt funny and his teacher taught him to never take anything from strangers. So he would peer into the different rooms and watched as they writhed on the ground, twitching their limbs while their eyes rolled to the backs on their skulls, faces covered in snowy powder and needles sticking out of their arms. He would watch as some of them awoke, vomiting all over the ground and clasping at their heads, groaning before passing out again. He would watch as Harry did all of this.

When he turned eight and Harry no longer remembered his birthday, John ran away from that place too. Harry had taught him enough about living on nothing for him to get around. His clothes were too small and he was dirtier than the pavement itself, but he kept moving. There was nothing else to do really. He found food in dumpsters, and drank water from the water fountains. He found himself blankets and stayed in the homeless hangouts again. Then Raz found him. A skinny kid with shaggy brown hair and mischievous hazel eyes. Fifteen-years-old, just younger than Harry. He said he’d never seen John before, asked whether he had a home, and John told him that he didn’t.

That’s not true, he told John, You’re just like me. I run ‘round all of London, ‘cause all of it’s my home. That day, Raz held out a hand and John grasped it tightly. John stayed with him, and it was fun. True to his word, they ran everywhere, across the city and back. They would go spy on the others, would run across the rooftops in the dark when no one could tell them off; they would shake clotheslines to disturb the pigeons. And John supposed that’s how he came to fall in love with the city, because Raz showed him it in its true colours. At night, when they sat atop the roof of a restaurant and Raz managed to sneak him a piece of warm bread, they would look over the city. And it was a lovely city. They could look over the Thames, see the London Eye and Big Ben all lit up in blue and purple like the jellyfish John remembered seeing on a class trip to the aquarium ages ago. Raz looked after him again, just like Harry once did. Except John thought that Raz was much better at doing it. He got him some bigger clothes and shoes and gave Ryker a new eye. He had a little hideout, where other kids like them hung out too. It was their special place, it had blankets like a nest and random little things which Raz had found on the streets. Toys, books, pieces of plastic, a couple of bullet shells, he probably had it all. It was there that they would retreat to after seeing the city lights and John would show him his dictionary. They would go through it together, John would read him a word and then he had to tell him what it meant, then vice versa. And Raz had no idea on what he was going on about half the time, but he still laughed and played along. He made John laugh too.

Then one day, Coyote, if he remembered right, one of the boys from the hideout, was killed. A stabbing incident. One of those small ones which no one bothers to report or investigate - he was a homeless anyway, so who would care? Scat, one of the older kids (Raz said his actual name was Jason, they all had nicknames), had been worried after he hadn’t come back after a couple of nights. So he and Pen (one of the girls) had gone to look for him. A week later, they found his body in one of the dumpsters nearby, covered in gashes and starting to smell. They came back and told all of them. After that, Raz taught him how to fight.

There were street boxing fights all over the place, but Raz kept him away from them. He told him to stay away from them, scared that he wouldn’t come back. Raz knew how to do it, having had to teach himself after a few close encounters, apparently. He would hold up bags of rubbish for him to punch and kick at, and John would manage to break them sometimes. Raz told him never to do it, not unless he had to, unless he had to protect himself. The less you were known for something around this joint, he had strictly told him, the better. He was good at it, Scat and some of the other kids had told him. But he listened to Raz’s words carefully, they almost went everywhere together. They didn’t bump into anyone bad.

Of course, their good streak had to run out sometime. Because a year later, Raz and him managed to run into a guy who was in the process of killing someone else. Which wasn’t so great. They tried to run away, but the man chased them and they accidentally made a wrong turn. It was one of the alleys Raz and him didn’t like because it took so much effort to get out of. John heard sirens, so the police must’ve known about him. Long story short, he was shoved behind a dumpster before he could be seen and Raz paid the price. The man ran away and John waited out the night next to his best friend. John held Raz’s hand as he told him about anything and everything. It didn’t make sense, he was just saying sentences in some random order, disconnected and fragmented memories - John told him to as he held his small hands against the blood pouring from the stab wounds marring his body. It burnt, searing his winter-frozen palms with red and sadness and anger.

The police never came. The next day, John packed his bag and left the hideaway kids, unable to bear with what had happened.

He cried himself to sleep in the corners of the homeless shelters, he barely managed to make it through the days. A lot of the time, he found himself just walking, through the streets, across the rooftops, all over the city. He went places that he and Raz went ages ago. He left little tokens of things he found on the street at those places. Little reminders in obscure places that John was sure nobody would find. He regularly went back to check on them. They stayed. Occasionally, he bumped into some of the kids he met ages ago. They told him to come back, that it was alright. John would just shake his head and walk off again. Some nights, he wouldn’t eat, some he wouldn’t sleep. But there was no one to worry about his health and he really couldn’t be bothered to care. The only reason he was alive was because Raz saved him, and he wasn’t allowed to waste that by killing himself with his own stupidity (at least, that’s what he thought Raz would tell him), even if he was only just alive. With his carelessness, it was probably inevitable for him to find himself in almost the same situation a couple of months later. Murders occurred around London on practically a daily basis. He heard sirens again, but doubted that meant anything. This time, he landed a couple of punches and the knife slashed across his upper arm before he decided to give up. He hid behind a rubbish bin at the end of an alleyway which he’d lured them into and decided that was going to be the end of him. But, it wasn’t.

The police did come, that particular murderer was caught. John watched with wide eyes as he was tackled to the ground by a man in blue, handcuffed clicked on to his wrists and the knife in his hands clatter against the concrete. He held his breath as they directed him out of the alleyway, and another man with spiky brown hair walked to the spot where the man had been. The police officer picked up the knife in his gloved hands, which was coated in red. Red from his arm, he realised, looking at it. That movement caused the plastic bags to shuffle around him, and suddenly John found himself being stared at. He moved towards him, John held up part of a broken plate defensively.

 _I’m not going to hurt you_ , he said softly, putting down the knife before asking, _what’s your name?_

He remembered opening his mouth and nothing coming out. He remembered trying to force his name out of his throat and almost gagging with the effort. John remembered being shocked by himself. He shook his head, unable to do anything else. The man just held up his hands as if in surrender, he walked over and knelt in front of him.

 _It’s okay_ , he smiled, voice soft and soothing, _don’t strain yourself._

Then he looked down at his arm and his smile fell, _you’re hurt._

Momentarily, he forgot about that. Maybe it was the adrenaline of still being alive or the fear of being spotted by the police like he’d been trying to avoid since he’d been five. John blinked down at it, the pain beginning to register. The man realised this.

 _Come with me_ , he held out a hand, _I can get that fixed up._

John froze up, looking up at him with uncertainty. His whole life had been a whole lot of hard choices and running away, maybe it would be easier if he just handed himself in. The man kept his hand there, waiting. Not expectantly, just there, as a choice. There were more footsteps, and suddenly someone else was joining the officer in front of him.

 _What have we got here, Sergeant?_ the other man asked, squatting down next to him.

 _A kid, sir_ , the first one replied gently, _he’s been injured. What should we do?_

He was stared down at blankly, before the leading officer turned and walked away. _Look’s like a homeless. We’ll need to take him to the station for interrogation first though, seems like he witnessed something. After that’s done, we can look up records and if nothing turns up, enrol him into an orphanage._

_Now?_

_Yes._

_But sir_ , the brown-haired man stammered, _he’s hurt, and tired. You can’t expect him to come into the station like this._

_Take him to the hospital then. They’ll look after him for the night, I guess._

That was the last thing he said before walking off and barking to some other officers. John stared up at the other man expectantly.

 _Come on then, kid,_ he told him, holding out his hand again, _I’ll take care of you._

John took his hand.


	2. Nothing to Lose

He didn’t remember much after he took the man’s hand.

The whole night really had just been full of fear and adrenaline, so it was probably expected that he passed out. John was pretty sure he fell asleep as soon as he was taken to a police car, but then again, he couldn’t remember. When he finally did come to though, it was not in a police car, but in a very pale green room. Weird pings and beeps surrounded him, and he could also hear the subdued chattering and shuffling of people moving about. This environment was new. And that’s what made it strange. He was tucked under some white sheets up to his nose, and everything smelt like poisonous stuff. Well, Raz told him it was stuff that was meant to clean things, and that if you drank it you’d probably die. Scat had called it poisonous. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, noticing when he pulled them away, that they were completely clean.

The first thing he thought, however, was that ‘I’m in a bed.'

The next thing was ‘I’m in a room.'

The third thing was ‘I’m in a place. With people.'

The fourth thing was ‘I’m clean.'

And finally, the fifth thing was ‘I’m not dead.'

Which was a lot of thoughts, as well as facts, for him to take in at the time. Seeing that the last time he’d really been clean was before he left home, the last time he’d been in a bed or in a room was back when he was with Harry, and the last time he’d been in a place with people where he was allowed was the library, before he got too dirty to go there. Oh, and just when he thought someone was going to stab him with a knife, that person was tackled and he was taken by another guy who then took him to a hospital. He’d been saved. It was all really weird. Several things he could hardly believe happening all at once.

He sat up, and immediately jerked when pain ran down his left arm. Looking down at it, he noticed that there were little black crosses where he’d been cut by that guy’s knife yesterday. There was also a little white strip, which John thought was way too small and stupidly in the wrong place. It didn’t even go over the black crosses. He also saw that there was a tube in his elbow. And that was what really hurt. His fingers wrapped around the thin, clear tube. Maybe if he pulled it out, it wouldn’t hurt so much…

“Ah, don’t do that!”

Shocked at the sudden sound of another person, John immediately complied, pulling the sheets back up to his nose and shimmying as far as he could away from the voice as he could. At the door, there was a man standing there, hand out with a panicked face. He dropped his hand, slowly approaching the bed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” his voice was soft and quiet, like Pen’s when she sang lullabies to them. “I’m… I’m Dr McCoy… I’m just here to check you out, make sure you’re okay… Yeah?"

John blinked at him cautiously but dropped his guard slightly as the man approached, fingers fluttering over his injury like delicate butterfly wings. He asked John to do a couple of things, like look into a torch and to tell him if his arm hurt if he did different things. There was no reason to talk back, all the questions could be answered by nodding or shaking his head, or facial expressions, so he just didn’t talk. When Dr McCoy finally pulled away, writing something on some papers, the door opened again, causing John to become alert and somewhat fearful again. It was a police officer.

“Ah, hello sir,” Dr McCoy paused writing, blinking up to the man who’d just entered. “Can I help you?"

“I have the information on the boy that was requested?” he held up a brown folder. John recognised him as the man who’d coaxed him from out behind the rubbish bins.

“Oh, perfect, may I see?”

The two men in front of him conversed in hushed murmurs while Dr McCoy read over the papers he’d been given. This was something entirely unknown to John… He hadn’t been to a hospital since the day he was born… Not even for a check up or something, probably because his dad was scared that he’d tell on him. To be honest, he was lucky he’d survived without contracting any major illnesses or diseases within his time living on the streets. Well, he’d gotten a couple of very bad colds, but the hideout where all the street rats hung out had a fire which kept them all pretty warm in winter, and Raz had made sure he’d gotten more food than he usually got for him. In turn, John would try do the same. But to be in such a modern environment, with access to modern medicine and clean resources. It was a luxury to John. A life he did not know existed.

He was able to overhear parts of the conversation the two others in the room were having. Most of it he could understand, but there were a few words which made no sense to him. However, he guessed the conversation was about him though. Something told him that those papers were about him (which was scary- how had they even gotten that information???), so he guessed if they were talking about that, they had to be talking about him...

“I’ll be needing to keep these,” Dr McCoy hummed thoughtfully. "Him being a homeless makes it a lot harder to pinpoint things which could help us to treat him. We need all the info we can get."

“Ah, yeah, that’s fine. We have a copy of his files back at the Yard,” the brown-haired man replied. "There’s more details to the DNA test if you need them…?"

“Yes please, send them to me through the hospital. I’ve given you my private email, haven’t I?"

“The details are back the station, but yes. I’ll tell my boss. He’ll get the forensics to send the full profile to you."

“… You gave the sample to the forensics…?"

“Mm, they’re the ones who carry out the DNA profiling."

“Ah, okay then, that makes sense."

Dr McCoy turned around, stopping his conversation with the young man who John was still unsure about, closing the brown folder in his hands. He carried it with him, holding it close to his chest like it was special.

“Right so, John…?” Dr McCoy approached his bedside again, still holding the folder in his hands. “That’s your name? John Hamish Watson?"

It had been so long since he’d heard his entire name, he’d almost forgotten it. Yes, that’s who he was, John Hamish Watson. He nodded at doctor firmly. At least there was one thing he definitely knew...

“Okay, so, here’s what’s going to happen; I need to keep you here for a few more days so I can go do a couple more things to make sure you’re okay,” Dr McCoy told him softly, before pointing at the brown-haired gentleman behind them. “So in a couple of days, Mr Lestrade here will come and pick you up… Is that fine? Do you understand?"

John glanced behind him, looking at the young man standing there rather awkwardly, shuffling his feet side to side. He looked slightly nervous, kinda like how some of the new kids he saw back when he was in the street rats gang. Maybe it was because he was around new people. That was usually why the new kids got scared. The blinds for the room were down so John couldn’t tell if there were any other people dressed like him outside the room, but he was sure there were… Police… That’s what Raz called them… He said it was best to stay out of their way. But for now, they seemed to be helping him. And it wasn’t like he could run away at this particular moment, nor in this particular state. Looking back at Dr McCoy again, he nodded once more. Well, if it got too troublesome he could always try run away again. He’d ran away from his parents once without too much trouble, why shouldn’t it be the same with other adults?

He couldn’t help but wonder what Mr Lestrade would need him for though. It wasn’t as if he was important in anyway, he couldn’t exactly help them with anything- they’d already got the guy who had tried to kill him. And it wasn’t as if he knew anything about the guy he saw getting murdered. And it’s not like he followed him. So really, there wasn’t much reason to keep him around, if any. And, it wasn’t as if it was his fault. He was desperate for food, but not so much that he’d get in the way of any bad people to get to that. Raz had taught him better than that, and getting in the way of bad people seemed like a bad idea anyway. He’d heard first hand what had happened to Coyote…

“Great,” the older man replied, turning around. “Thanks for dropping in, we’ll see you in a couple of days then."

“Ah, yeah, okay,” Mr Lestrade jolted to attention, acknowledging the doctor before leaning slightly to look at John. “See you soon, kid."

The young man smiled at them both lopsidedly before making his exit, the door softly clicking as it closed. Dr McCoy hummed, hanging the clipboard (at least that’s what he thought it was called) in a small shelf thing held up by a pole… Which confused John but anyway…

“Right, so you probably need something to eat…” McCoy scratched the back of his head. “Okay… I’ll get the nurses to send something in for you… You just sit tight here, yeah? You’re not allergic to anything, I ran all the tests whilst doing the regular checkup thing."

He’d known that, of course, but John nodded as McCoy exited the room, leaving him by himself… Wait, why was he in a room by himself… That’s a bit weird. He shook his head and looked down back to the bed. His legs hardly reached halfway. Well, he was a short boy, still he hoped he grew a little taller.

Oh dear, he would still have to try talk to people, that would be a bit difficult considering he hadn’t spoken in… God knows how long. It would appear as if he couldn’t. Maybe if he could, he’d be able to, it didn’t seem like he’d forgotten how to speak. It’s just he couldn’t. Also, he couldn’t really write, or he hadn’t tried in years. At least he could read. Maybe that would work. Cautiously, John opened his mouth and tried to speak. What came out could only be described as a last breath. An exhale of a person losing their voice just as they would close their eyes to go to Heaven. He tried again, and no more than a wispy sigh would escape his lips. No amount of shaping his mouth and opening his throat would make any sound come out. There was just breath. John screamed, but nothing came out, not a sound. Again, he was choking himself with effort, body racked with silent coughs as he slumped over himself on the bed. And it was then, when he was catching his breath, he realised that when Raz died and he left the other street rats, a part of him died too - he lost his voice. He didn’t know why, it wasn’t like he used it for anything in particular but talking. It couldn’t just be because he hadn’t talked to anyone in ages, could it? Tears welled up in his eyes, rolling down his cheeks leaving wet trails in their wake and he wrapped his arms around himself tightly. He couldn’t even wail in sorrow.

“John? I have lunch for - Oh my God, are you alright? Dr McCoy!"

In the next minute, there was a tray of food left at the bottom of his bed on a table. The nurse gave him a bucket and held it in front of his face, rubbing a soothing hand down his back. He tried to signal to her that he didn’t need the bowl, but she insistently kept it pushed up against him. Dr McCoy soon took her place, sitting on the edge of the bed and asking him what was wrong. He didn’t move the bowl, but he didn’t forcefully shove it in his face. John rubbed his eyes to try and rid his tears.

“Hey…” Dr McCoy leant down and listened closely to his breathing (John thought). “… You’re not making any noise…?"

John shook his head sadly, sniffling as the doctor drew back and removed the bowl from view.

“No wailing or sobs… You’re not feeling stomach ill, are you?"

Again, John shook his head while his eyes and nose were wiped with a tissue. An arm wrapped around him and pulled him into an embrace. Something which he initially tensed up at and almost tried to push against, but after coming to recognise that it was safe, he cautiously lent into it.

“... Can you speak, John?” Dr McCoy asked softly.

John looked him in the eyes and shook his head one last time before nestling back into the doctor’s chest. His tears wet his coat and he was getting snot all over it but he couldn’t.

_No._


	3. It's the Only Choice You Have

“Can you try to yell once more?"

John opened his mouth reluctantly and attempted to yell as hard as he could, maybe to prove a point to the psychologist sitting in front of him. Nothing but a puff of air came out, inaudible, if not practically soundless. Over the past few days of staying at the hospital, John had been subjected to a number of tests which where both physical and recently mental, since Dr McCoy had found out that he couldn’t talk. But really all they’d been doing is trying to get him to talk, she’d even pinched him at one point. While his mouth had opened in a yelp of pain, no sound came out. He’d begun to become resigned to the fact that he just wouldn’t be able to talk. For how long, he didn’t know, but three days was a long time. What about if he couldn’t talk after a week? After two weeks??? What if he never talked again? Ever?

Asides from that, hospitals were nowhere near as bad as he initially thought. Nurses asked him too many questions, and he was kind of poked at a lot. But he got food and water, there was a roof over his head and he could get someone to help him clean himself (because he was absolutely useless at it, cleaning himself wasn’t something he was particularly well versed with) whenever he needed. Oh, and he didn’t have to pee in a gutter or something, which was always nice. Overall, he was very happy here. No one seemed to mind him being there, and no one was forcefully taking him away back to his parents - that was the last thing he wanted.

“Hm. Thank you, John,” the lady at the desk in front of him was writing something down on a clipboard. “I’ve gathered all I need for today. I will see that Dr McCoy gives you my final report."

With a nod, John hopped out of the seat and walked out the door. He needed to find some way to say thank you and expressed manners. Maybe he could bow, although John thought that may be seen as a bit weird. Dr McCoy was waiting outside the office he was in, casually leaning against one of the walls talking to another man. John had come to see him as a caretaker, almost like Raz, as he had been the one who had talked to him about everything and guided him around when he needed to go places and what not whenever he wasn’t with other patients. However, he did understand that he probably was a little annoying, as he did have the habit to go wondering off in curiosity of the place, which wasn’t allowed in a hospital. He couldn’t help it, there had never been an opportunity for him to explore or learn about what this place would be like. So John was very grateful to this man, he spent a lot of his time looking after him when there were other people who probably needed him more; he was not sure how he could thank him… McCoy waved him over.

“Hey, John, come say hi, ” McCoy smiled down at him as he came to his side. “This is Dr Pike, he’s one of my friends here. He’s got a kid about your age too."

John waved his hand as a form of greeting, his oversized scrub clothing making swishing noises; plastic against plastic. Dr Pike looked older than Dr McCoy, with faded brown-grey hair and kind blue eyes with the same coloured scrubs on as him but with a white jacket over top. He wasn’t like an old man though. It’s just his hair was different coloured. There was a black briefcase by his side, and he squatted down to be on John’s level.

“Hello John, McCoy has told me a lot about you,” Dr Pike held his hand out to shake, John grasped his rough fingers in one of his smaller hands. “I’m Dr Pike, or Chris, if you’d like."

The little boy nodded as a sign of understanding, as well as a sign of acknowledgement, thankfully, which the older doctor understood. He continued to speak to him.

“I’ve got a son your age, he’s adopted, but it feels like he’s my own,” John cocked his head at this statement, so Dr Pike elaborated (although he didn’t really have to, John understood the idea). “I’m not his actual father. His name is James, you look a wee bit like him. So when I saw you following McCoy around, I was a bit surprised."

John gave him a smile to show his amusement at the statement before looking up at Dr McCoy, who was chuckling down at him. A chirp caused them to all stop and McCoy reached into his pocket to pull out a small black rounded rectangle thing to read. He furrowed his brow at it slightly but didn’t seem overly upset about it.

“Hey, John, we’ve got to go,” Dr McCoy told him, putting the black thing away in his jacket again. “Mr Lestrade is here to pick you up."

“Ah, before you do,” Dr Pike pulled a plastic bag out of his briefcase and handed it to John. “These are for you."

Peering into the bag curiously, John saw that there were some clothes in there, a pair of shorts, some shoes, a top and a red hoodie, even socks and underwear! At the moment, he was just wearing these hospital nappy like things, which he didn’t really like. It was such a startling gesture of generosity that John had never experienced before. Plus, it was a package of goods he could never imagine having in his lifetime (albeit that was small) - this was luxury, only the wealthy got these kinds of things. In panic, John thrust the bag back towards Dr Pike with a shocked and unsure face. He couldn’t accept this! This was too much, way more than he’d ever been given before. It was like taking gold! And that was too precious for him to look after. However, the kind man only seemed to laugh at his frantic confusion and surprise, just nudging the bag back in his direction.

“Don’t worry about it, those are clothes that are too small for James. Same with the shoes. He’s not going to miss any of this stuff,” Mr Pike smiled gently at him when John furiously shook his head. “I was only going to throw them away, but when I heard about you, McCoy suggested I bring some in - they look about your size, if not bigger."

Now even more puzzled, John looked up at Dr McCoy with a frown, looking for an answer. He just smiled down at John sheepishly and used his knee to knock John on the back towards Dr Pike and the offered clothing. “It’s alright, John, you can take it."

“Please,” Dr Pike added.

Again, he held the bag towards him, but John just walked up to him with wobbly legs and wrapped his arms around his neck loosely. It was the only way he could think of to express his gratitude and thanks to the older man for doing this for him. John hadn’t been gifted anything since Raz had been around, yet he was never able to give him anything of this value. The man in his arms gave another couple of chuckles, and pressed the bag to his chest, which he hugged tightly after releasing the doctor.

“I think he’s saying thank you,” Dr McCoy hummed happily, John nodded in agreement. “There we go."

“Well, you’re very welcome, John,” Dr Pike gave him a pat on the shoulder. “It was really no problem…” He stood up to his full height, grabbing his briefcase. “I best be back to work. It was lovely to meet you, John. I hope I see you again some time."

John gave him a highly enthusiastic nod, and slightly bowed to him in a way that some of the Japanese kids in the streets had taught him (it had been a while, so maybe it wasn’t quite right). He needed another gesture that mean ‘yes’, he couldn’t just keep nodding. Asides from having to say ‘yes’, it was beginning to hurt his neck to do it so often. Maybe he shouldn’t do it so vigorously. Dr Pike gave him one last endearing smile and a ruffling of the hair before he left, walking down the hallway and disappearing into the crowd where John couldn’t see him.

“Alright, now let’s go back to your room. You can get changed there,” Dr McCoy placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him through the hospital staff walking around. “I’m going to miss you, John. It’s been nice having you around. You’re a lot easier to handle than Jim is."

‘ _I’m going to miss you too_ ,’ John thought sadly, because after this, God-knows what would happen to him.

His future after the hospital was uncertain; they needed him back at the police station for some reason, but after that what would he do? Be abandoned back on the streets again? Back to his parents? It was something John was not looking forward to. He held the bag closer to him, tighter, tighter, tighter. It’s not like he had anything left now. The police had taken the backpack he used on the streets, probably destroyed it too. They re-entered the chemically smelling room, with John’s thoughts looming like a giant storm cloud in his conscience and uncertainty flooding his veins. Mr Lestrade was waiting there for him, sitting down in one of the chairs by the edge of the room. When they walked in, he stood up, as if he wasn’t meant to be sitting. There was a black backpack in the seat next to him. John looked up at him curiously.

“John will get changed in here,” Dr McCoy’s hand left his shoulder and he walked over to the young police officer. “We’ll talk outside for a moment, hm?"

“Ah, yeah, sure,” Mr Lestrade nodded, following the doctor. Then John was left alone with his plastic bag.

Looking at the door uncertainly, John started to undress and pull items out. Dr Pike was right, the clothes were a fraction too big for him, but it wasn’t bothersome like the scrubs were. They smelt like something flower like but not quite, and it almost smelt like the park. But on fabric. John pulled on the shorts and socks, seeing the shoes were laces, he smiled. He could tie laces, it was one thing John was proud of because even some of the older kids at the hideout had no idea how to do that. The only thing that was really big was the hoodie. It was a dark but faded red, worn and washed soft in a way John could only say about something that had been loved. He had to pull the sleeves up because they went far over his hands and it swallowed his body a little bit, but it was nice and warm so it would be good for the London winter.

John sat on the bed for a little bit, just waiting for Mr Lestrade and Doctor McCoy to finish talking about important stuff and come back in to talk to him. When they didn’t, he got confused and walked to the door, opening it and sneakily peeping out. They were standing, and seemed to still be talking, not that much but still. John tugged on Dr McCoy’s leg, trying to get his attention.

“Oh, you’re done? Great, we can come in,” the doctor blinked down at him before entering he room and sitting on one of the chairs, the policeman doing the same. “Right, so John, looks like you’re done here, Mr Lestrade is going to take you on a little adventure now."

‘ _I don’t want to leave,_ ’ John thought to himself, but nodded in understanding as he shuffled awkwardly in his place. He was fascinated by the way the rubber of the shoes squeaked against the shiny floor.

“I’ve explained to Mr Lestrade that you aren’t exactly able to talk right now, for reasons we’re still trying to understand here, but that’s okay,” Dr McCoy continued leaning down on his elbows so he could look John in the eyes. “And we’ll understand soon, I’ll tell you as soon as we know, okay?"

Again, he nodded. It was the only thing he could do. His eyes were kept to the ground as they started becoming wet, and Dr McCoy seemed to understand that there was something wrong with him when the floor started to become shiny with little splatters of tears. Mr Lestrade seemed to see something too, but didn’t act on it, maybe he didn't know how.

“Awww, John, c’mere,” Dr McCoy opened his arms, the boy toddling over to be held in a tight embrace. He tensed at first, again, but relaxed into the hug when nothing happened in the first few moments of it, asides from hugging. “I’m really going to miss chasing your little butt around the hospital,” John felt his head move. “Oh yeah, did I tell you that? It's not in the files I gave you, but he runs off a lot, not like getting away kind of running off, but more like he wants to look at everything. So keep an eye on him,” Dr McCoy ran a hand through his hair. “Isn’t that right, John?"

Despite his sadness, John nodded into the man’s shoulder before he pulled away and gave him a tissue from a nearby box mounted on the wall. Dr McCoy smiled at him while he wiped his teary eyes and snotty nose.

“You can come back and see me any time, John,” Dr McCoy told him, green eyes starting to well up. “Dammit, John, now I’m going to cry."

John laughed at that. Well, it wasn’t so much a laugh as a slight body shudder with a smile. He hugged Dr McCoy one more time before wiping his eyes and looking at Mr Lestrade, who seemed completely and utterly confused at what to do.

“Um. Um…”

“I think that means he’s ready to go,” Dr McCoy offered as suggestion, rubbing one of his eyes. “You probably should be off, John might not be so ready to later. Also, I think I just got paged."

Dr McCoy knelt down and gave him a last embrace, only lightly but just enough for John to feel safe. “I’ll see you round, okay? Come visit soon."

With one last nod, John let him go, and then he was standing up and walking away, out the door of the room and into the hospital crowds. It felt like someone close to him had died, but less sad, he had left the street rats and that had never hurt that much. When Dr McCoy had walked away, John felt like he was being abandoned again, like losing someone to London, or losing his sister to what he’d come to know as drugs. With one last rubbing of his eyes, the boy now looked to his new caretaker, he supposed, Mr Lestrade. The police officer had too stood up, and was also blinking in curiosity at John.

“Hi then,” Mr Lestrade waved with a lopsided smile before scratching his head awkwardly. “… Uh, I’m Greg… Um… You don’t talk?"

John shook his head with a heavy gut. Great. Now he would constantly be asked this. 

“Ah… Well, uh, here,” Mr Les - Greg (his mind told him, because it was easier to say), stammered nervously. He held out one of his hands, the other still playing with his short, spiky brown hair. “Hold my hand… Uh... Um, so you don’t get lost…?"

Well, this was a little weird. Dr McCoy had never asked him to do this. Raz had when they had to be running really fast and he couldn’t keep up as well. So he hadn’t held hands in years, and simply stared at Greg’s hand for a while. It was shocking to have been given the offer to do so.

“Uh…” Greg raised an eyebrow at him, face beginning to go red. But before he could retract his hand from the space between them, John grabbed at with both of his sets of fingers, and drew close to his leg. “O-Oh… O-Okay…"

Looking up at Greg, he nodded firmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally starting to get into the swing of writing again, after a long period of withering inspiration and heavy writer's block. Might even have an update on Science & Faith soon :)

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify, there are no orphanages in London, or England. So I've been told by various sources on the Internet. However, this is an AU, so for this purpose, orphanages do exist in England.


End file.
